


Travelling to Azkaban

by ashes_and_ashes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Angst, M/M, Torture, Whump, wolfstar, wolfstar angst, wolfstar games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-12-16 06:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21031598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashes_and_ashes/pseuds/ashes_and_ashes
Summary: The box lies in front of him, iron and bronze and steel. There’s no windows, of course, nothing but the box and the huge slab of metal that served as the door. Aurors were bustling back and forth, tracing spell work onto the metal - he recognizes a few of the incantations. Spells to conceal, to hide, to contain and to hurt. They wouldn’t kill him, he realizes, because why would they? Why would they deprive a criminal of his punishment, grant him the quick death he didn’t deserve? Better to let him suffer, to spend eternity rotting away with the dementors.





	Travelling to Azkaban

**Author's Note:**

> My prompt was T18 - We know the road to freedom has always been stalked by death  
My team is Embarkment

The last thing that he sees are the stars.

Diamonds in the night sky, like streaks of silver on a bed of velvet grinning mockingly above him, blues and reds and pinks. Sirius stares at them, for as long as possible, trying to imprint it in his head, sear it into his brain. The air is cold, crisp; he inhales as much as it as possible, until his lungs burn and he thinks he might float away.

He’s freezing. His feet are bare, slowly going numb from the cold, his fingers white and icy. The rough shirt he wears does absolutely nothing to warm him, instead rubbing the wounds on his back raw.

He winces. They hadn’t been gentle with him, though he supposed he deserved it. He can feel blood running down his back, his shirt pressing into the tender cuts there, made with spells and knives and fists, blood like ink on the pages of a book. 

Sirius clenches his teeth, ignores the bright spark of pain that flares through his jaw. He tries to take in as much of the scene as possible; the trees, the stars, the rocky ground on which he knelt on. Pebbles dig into his legs as he shifts, pressing into the bruises there as well. The chains around his wrists clank as he turns his shivers, metal against metal.

The restraints were tight, so tight that they left deep red indentations against the flesh. Sirius remembers 6 months ago, chained up by Death Eaters against a wall, Remus lying unconscious across from him. He had pleaded, for 3 days, begging someone to come help -  _ please, please save him, I’ll do anything _ \- screamed the words until his voice gave out. 

There was nothing else he could have done. Sirius looks down, remembering the sharp  _ crack _ of his thumbs, the way he had twisted them, pulled at the bone until it popped, the fracture reverberating through his arm. Ripping his hands out of the manacles had been agonizing, metal scraping against bone, blood streaming down his wrists, his moans muffled through gritted teeth. He had crawled over to Remus after, curled up over his ravaged hands, and he knows he would have died had James not found them 2 days later. 

The scars are livid in the starlight, all raised silver and flecks of white. He runs his thumbs over the marks absently, the chains clanking with every movement. 

There was no point trying to break out of these chains. He had tried, back in the interrogation room, cracked his thumb back and wrenched at the joint and probably would have broken his wrists as well just to get out of the chains. The guards caught him, though, fixed his hands and then beat him bloody for trying. 

_ No point _ , he thinks. Even if he did manage it, there was nowhere left to go.

He can’t hear anything, save for his own ragged breathing and the pounding of his heart. The Aurors has layered him in all types of spells, trying to limit his chance of escape, muffling his hearing and his vision. He couldn’t do anything about that either, not without his wand. 

The thought sends a pang through him. He used to be able to use 2 wands, his own and Remus’, could wield them both like they had chosen him. If his wand felt like fire then Remus’ felt like ice, all cooling waves instead of raging flames, chilling sparks instead of burning embers. 

He hisses, staring down at the ground again. The familiar waves of anger were coming back again, like bolts of lightning in his veins -

Something slams into his side; Sirius curses as his shoulder plows into the dirt. He can taste blood in his mouth, metallic and bitter - Sirius spits it out through clenched teeth. The chains clank around his wrist as he tries to push himself up, his legs folding underneath him. “ _ Fuck - “ _

There’s a sudden yank on the chains holding his arms together - Sirius lets out a pained grunt as his wrists are pulled back, so hard he thinks they might snap. He staggers to his feet, the wounds on his back screaming, his teeth clenched in an unyielding line.

The Auror holding him merely sneers. He’s ugly - crooked teeth and a squashed nose. He smirks at the blood running down Sirius’ side, pulls the chains back further until Sirius’ wrists click, on the verge of snapping entirely. 

“Death Eater whore,” he spits. Sirius ignores him. He already knows what type of man the Auror is, the kind that took delight in the torture of others. He knows how to deal with it, though - he’s spent enough time with his mother. 

The Auror cocks his head, eyes alight with glee. “Look at you. Go both ways, huh? Filthy traitor.” 

The words spring to his head again -  _ I’m not a traitor _ \- but Sirius keeps his mouth shut. The magic binding him also prevents him from speaking - he learnt that the hard way, after attempting to swear at his captors lead to a sharpness in his mouth, like his lips were being pried open with a blade. 

Sirius ignores him, refuses to even glance his way. The man continues pulling at the chains until one of Sirius’ wrists gives - he hears more then feels the sharp  _ crack  _ that echoes through his body. The man snorts and lets him drop to the ground; Sirius lands hard, presses his wrist against his stomach and bites down hard on his lip. 

_ Not a sound _ , he thinks, his chest heaving.  _ Don’t let that bastard win. _

The Auror straightens, that infuriating smirk still on his lips. Sirius wants to rip it off.

“Wonder how long it’ll take them to notice,” he muses.

Sirius lets out a shaking breath. There’s blood everywhere; staining his clothes, his skin, in dark splotches on the ground, vivid crimson against the greyness of the rocks. 

He closes his eyes, fighting the urge to throw up everywhere.  _ One more minute. Survive one more minute. _

He looks up, grimacing; the Auror’s face is full of amusement. With a mocking bow, he steps back, and Sirius’ throat closes up.

The box lies in front of him, iron and bronze and steel. There’s no windows, of course, nothing but the box and the huge slab of metal that served as the door. Aurors were bustling back and forth, tracing spell work onto the metal - he recognizes a few of the incantations. Spells to conceal, to hide, to contain and to hurt. They wouldn’t kill him, he realizes, because why would they? Why would they deprive a criminal of his punishment, grant him the quick death he didn’t deserve? Better to let him suffer, to spend eternity rotting away with the dementors. 

The Auror who snapped his wrists gives him a mocking sneer. “Better enjoy it,” he whispered, giving the surroundings a vague wave of his hand. “You ain’t going to see it ever again.”

Sirius just lets his head fall forward, his hair obscuring his face until he couldn’t see anything any more. His wrist throbs, pain radiating outward like the dull rays of a sun. He pressed his wrist with his other hand - grimacing against the pain.  _ It’s definitely broken.  _

His hand ghosts over his ring finger, the smooth skin at the base of his knuckle. They had taken his ring as well, the one Remus gave him all those nights ago, had taken his ring and his wand and cast them both into the flames. 

He still remembers that night, lying in bed after a battle, Remus’ hand a death-grip on his own. He had been stupid, he knew, rushed headfirst into the fighting and nearly gotten himself killed. 

Remus had gripped his hand, so tightly that it almost hurt, his eyes burning with that same intensity that Sirius always loved.

“Don’t,” he said. “You can’t do that again.”

“Who’s going to stop me?” Sirius mumbled - his lips were swollen, his head spinning from all the painkillers. The curse wound was still burning, waves of fire traveling up and down his spine in ripping, shredding waves. “Don’t give me all of that bullshit, Re. You would have done the same.”

Remus looked down. “Promise me,” he whispered. “Promise me you won’t kill yourself.”

Sirius laughed, the noise twisted and ugly. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll swear it. Hell, I'd swear it on our wedding rings, if we even make it that far without dying.” 

Remus’ face closed. “What do you mean?”

“We haven’t done anything yet,” Sirius whispered. “We haven’t - I haven’t - “

“Fine.” Remus held out his hands. In his palms were two rings; the dull band of pure silver that Sirius had given Remus so long ago and the one made of black metal, part of the chain link Sirius had ripped his hands out of. “Swear it. Swear you’ll always come back to me. Swear that we’ll live long enough to get married.”

Sirius closed his eyes, because hell, how could he promise something like that, when the world was burning and they could both die at any time? He swallowed hard, about to turn away, anything that would stop him from having to make that promise.

But Remus’ eyes were burning in the dim light, twin pools of fire and what could Sirius say? They knew each other, too damn well and Sirius thought he could drown in Remus’ eyes.

“Fine,” he said. “I swear it.”

He looks up now, tears turning everything blurry, washing everything in smooth sheets of grey. He hadn’t kept his promise to Remus after all. 

There’s another sharp tug on his chain; he almost cries out at the pain in his wrist. Sirius bites down hard, chokes the noise down, lets himself be lead to the iron box.

They strap more chains onto his legs, onto his knees, push him into the back wall. His head hits the back of the container, the world spinning in dizzying circles around him, the stars leaving streaks of colour against the darkness of his eyes. Sirius groans, pressing his hand tighter against his stomach.

“Shit,” he hears someone say. “Look at his wrist - it’s all bent back on itself.”

“He’s a criminal,” someone else replies. “Who gives a damn if he’s injured?”

“He could bleed out in the box.”

“He’s going to Azkaban. Probably better if he does end up dying. At least he wouldn’t have to face the dementors.” 

Sirius shakes his head. There was nothing the dementors could do to him, no other nightmare they could give that he hadn’t had already. The parade of the dead stretch out in his mind, all the people he killed and all the people he couldn’t save. 

There’s a sharp  _ crack, _ then a jolt of pain forces its way up Sirius’ body. He grits his teeth, glances down at his arm - the wrist was intact again, the bones straight instead of twisted. He flexes his fingers experimentally, winces at the slight soreness that reverberates through his fingers.  _ Fuck. _

He can still see the stars, pinpricks of light in the darkness, and Sirius locks the image away in his head as the Aurors slammed the door shut. The locks slid into place with a horrible, grating noise, an ominous finality to the sound. Sirius pushes against the door with us shoulder; it holds firm and he sags against it. 

He hears tapping on the roof of the box, feels the container sliding against stone and then suddenly they’re off, high into the sky, amongst the stars and between the clouds.

He wishes he could see it, wishes he could be out there on his broom, fingers winding in the soft tendrils of fog like they were tangled in Remus’ hair. 

Sirius sighs. He already knows what he’s going to do - hell, he’s doing it already. He’s taking Remus apart in his mind; every whisper, every glance, every caress and every kiss, until all that was left was ragged bits of old memories. And he’ll replay them in his head, all the shared history they had together, will keep playing it until the pieces fall apart. 

God. He wishes they had more time together, the two of them, wishes they had longer. He should have savoured it, those quiet days, before everything went to  _ shit _ -

The images start to play, so vivid that he can see them. The burnt out house, the way the bricks were scorched, the wooden rafters caved in. The huge oak tree that Harry used to climb was gone, the stump jagged and smeared with ashes. 

He barely remembers landing, in a long skid that tossed dirt everywhere, leaping off the bike before it had even stopped moving. Throwing the door open, hoping against hope, praying because the  _ Dark Mark wasn’t there, maybe He didn’t come - _

He’ll remember it for the rest of his miserable life. The windows, shards of glass like glitter everywhere and even in the faded lines of his memory he remembers it, settling like sand over the ground. 

It sliced up his hands, blood streaming from his palms and Sirius didn’t care as he raced towards the stairs because there was  _ no bodies, please let there be no bodies - _

It will always haunt him, he knows, will always haunt him for the rest of his life. James, sprawled on the ground like he was sleeping, his hair sticking out in wild tufts around his head and it looked like Sirius could just shake him, like he had done so many times before, shake him and pinch him and  _ wake up, please wake up, this is a dream, it has to be a dream. _

He stumbled up the stairs, heart pounding, so tense he thought he might be sick. 

He finds Lily on the ground as well, her hair spread out like a pool of blood around her, arms still flung wide open, the ghost of the girl she used to be. Harry was in the crib, screaming and screaming and the familiar rage had filled Sirius, the cold, distant anger, the fury that spiraled up and made him want to choke. 

He barely remembers what came next - Hagrid and Peter and the explosion. The next thing he knew, he was on his knees in an interrogation room, blood streaming from all the cuts on his back. 

Sirius chokes back the noise coming from his throat. Dumbledore had explained to him, as Sirius was chained roughly to the wall, what had happened.  _ The Ministry has to blame someone. Wouldn’t you rather it be you? _

It was always him. God, he could see it now, so fucking clearly it hurt. Dumbledore was never able to control him - and what use was a soldier who couldn’t obey orders? Better to lock them up, somewhere where they couldn’t do anything, keep them hidden away until needed. 

No wonder he sent Remus off into the Werewolf camps, buried him so deeply into enemy lines. Dumbledore knew that Sirius would do anything for Remus. He’d take the fall for him, if necessary.

And he’s fallen, so far, and all Sirius can do is laugh. Because he knows, knows that all good things come to an end and that the higher one goes, the further to fall. 

He can hear waves now, water rushing against the shore, and he knows he’s over the sea. The smell of salt fills the box, though he doesn’t know if that’s the ocean or if that’s his blood. His hand slowly drifts up, to his right shoulder, traces the brand there.

It’s a series of runes cut into the skin, though he can’t tell what they mean, can barely remember anything beyond the burning of the iron, pressing into his skin, searing right down to the bone. Remus has one too, though his is different, a werewolf registration code instead of whatever the hell this is.

He closes his eyes. When the tears come, he can’t stop them. Sirius puts his head in his hands and  _ sobs _ , like he hasn’t for years, sobs and sobs and sobs. Gasping, tears flowing over his cheeks, pain flaring in his back, in his ribs, agony and God, how can he survive this? How can he keep going?

He’s going to die in Azkaban, is going to die without ever seeing Remus again and  _ fuck _ , it hurts, more then anything, hurts that he’ll never be with Remus and he’s going to scream - 

Sirius viciously bites down, tearing the skin on his lip open again. He forces the pain down deep inside of him, locks it away, shoves it so deep that he can’t feel it. He lifts one shaking hand, the tattoos on his wrist in stark relief against the paleness of the skin. 

Remus tattooed it onto him; he remembers the needle biting into flesh, the pain mixed with pleasure, the ink spreading out bold lines. Kissing him after it was finished, all teeth and hands and rucked-up shirts, fingers against skin and tangled in hair. 

He can’t. He can’t break. He  _ won’t  _ break.

He feels the box being set down with a jolt, the impact sending shockwaves up and down his body.  _ They must have flown across the ocean already _ .

Terror fills his body. He’s 21, 21 years old and he’s in Azkaban and he’s there forever -

The doors fly open with a clang; the Aurors’ are there, wand out and faces grim. Sirius almost laughs at the sight - the entire department all out to escort him. 

He can see Azkaban through the open door, all grey spires and jagged metal, the waves tearing at the rocky cliff. He can feel the despair radiating from the place: images of Remus’ dismembered body, James’ empty face, Lily’s twisted neck flash in front of his eyes. He bites his lip, presses his teeth harder into the pulped flesh and raised scar tissue, keeps his breathing steady and his head high. 

_ Remus _ , he thinks.  _ I swear, I’ll see you again. _

He steps into the prison.


End file.
